


Discombobulate

by ricoaken



Series: State of the Art [6]
Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (Big Finish Audio)
Genre: Art, Cars, TARDIS - Freeform, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-02
Updated: 2018-02-02
Packaged: 2019-03-12 18:43:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13553331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ricoaken/pseuds/ricoaken
Summary: Works of Art being shown decades before they were even imagined? That strange temporal dysfunction seems like something just about right for the Time-Lord known as the Artist.





	Discombobulate

In the year 1790, one of the least things you’d expect to see was the scene which is about to be described. In the dark of the night, next to the Louvre, were two lonely souls arguing in whispers, speaking as loud as one can speak while still speaking low. Only drunks and the likes of which were around that hour into nighttime, but even those knew that odd apparition was not a regular one.  
The young man that was wearing a yellow tight fake-leather jacket, light-blue jeans and yellow sneakers, meddled with mechanic compounds that looked to be way too hot for him to be holding it with his bare hands. The woman beside him was wearing a white blouse and black formal pants. Had not their clothing been strange enough, the thing which they ran about was… out of place to say the least. That was a metal thing, big and angular, with four wheels, mostly black in color, with three blue lines on its side leading to a stylized “Z28” symbol. It was a 1980’s Chevrolet Camaro in the 18th century.  
–Artist, I told you, let me pilot. – Said the woman, whispering, and trying to hold her blond hair up. – We’ve managed to leave this dimension the last time!  
–Come on, Eoropa, you’re getting all the fun. – Said the young man called Artist, running his fingers through his short brown hair. – I think it’s used to coming to Earth, there must be something about this place’s magnetic pull.  
–Let’s drive away, people are starting to notice. – She said, as two homeless men holding a bottle of wine each crossed the street looking at them.  
–NOTHING TO SEE, FELLOW HUMAN BEINGS, WE’RE AN ALLUCINATION! – Exclaimed the Artist, waving his arms in a theatrical form.  
She pulled him inside the car and turned it on. The loud roar of the engine crossed the silence of the night like a thunder, and suddenly it was invisible. Let it be clear that was no ordinary car. In fact, those two were not ordinary people. The car was a TARDIS of the planet Gallifrey, disguised like an object ordinary to the human eye. It belonged to the man that called himself the Artist, and currently, traveling with him, was his friend General Eoropa of the Gallifreyan Army. What they were doing in the 18th Century? Nothing in particular. As we’ve seen, their presence there was much more a mistake than a visit. They were set in a personal quest, in search of another friend who was stuck in another dimension. That quest was going to be put on hold for a moment in time, because of the events that are about to be described.

–Eoropa… – Said the Artist, seemingly troubled by something.  
–What? – She replied; her eyes focused on the windshield which not only displayed the street in front of them but also information such as the time period and place that they were.  
–STOP THE CAR! – He shouted.  
Eoropa stopped the car abruptly, and the Artist took no longer than a second to open the door of the passenger’s seat and jump out of it. He ran towards the back of the street, leaving Eoropa troubled. She sighed and tiredly looked at her reflection in the mirror.  
The Artist felt unease at what his eyes saw. Looking at the walls in the Rue Saint Dominique he noticed something that, much like his car, was not where it belonged. Or rather when it belonged.  
–See those? – He pointed to posters on the walls.  
–Human advertising, I suppose? – Said the girl, trying to catch up with her hyperactive friend.  
The poster displayed a man with a long moustache, in his right hand he held up a paintbrush and in his face his eyes were bulging in a rather funny expression. By his side, was a painting.  
–No, not the advertising. – The Artist frowned with his eyes fixated in the poster. – The painting. That’s a piece by one Jetson Polley…  
–That doesn’t seem right. – She smiled.  
–No, it doesn’t. – He finally looked at her, but he did not smile. – He’s from the 20th Century. We have one of his pieces in the kitchen.  
–Oh, the spilled-paint-thing? – She remembered the picture hanging just by the side of the main fridge in the kitchen of the TARDIS.  
–That’s the one.  
–I don’t suppose we could just leave it and go back inside, and maybe, just maybe, try and go to another dimension? – She suggested.  
–I’m sorry, Eoropa. It’s art.  
–And you… – She said, rolling her eyes.  
–I’m the Artist. – He smiled.  
The invisible car drove away into the night, and the wind left behind by its roaring wheels made the poster fall from the wall. There, the man with a moustache displayed a work of art that did not belong to him, and the big letters in a purple tone advertised: come see the genius Mortimer, revolutionary artist. 

Morning came to Paris as birds sang and cafés opened. A beautiful sunshine shone upon the Louvre, and everything was joyful except for the expression in the Artist’s face.  
–I’m always amazed by the amount of clothing you own, seriously. – Said Eoropa. Her dress was a charming long one in a scarlet color.  
–I told you, we have to dress accordingly. – The Artist loosened the uncomfortable knot of the rag in his neck, a white feature in an otherwise almost completely purple-velvet vestment.  
They entered the Louvre along with the first crowd of the day, many women and men of aristocracy that had the preference for the fresh start of day.  
–Do you notice how they’re all speaking English, even though we’re in France? – The Artist smiled.  
Eoropa looked at him with a troubled expression.  
–You do know the Time Capsule has a translation device, don’t you? – She asked, inquiring him with her light blue eyes. – It sounds English to you because it was the prominent language from where you first stopped after you left Gallifrey.  
He looked back at her with an even more amazed expression and gasped.  
–Do you mean we’re speaking French to them? – He asked, looking around.  
–Yes, we are.  
–Mon Dieu!  
As they looked around for the paintings the Artist seemed even more outraged than he was before. Many of the pictures there displayed had not in fact been conceived for nearly two centuries after. Most of the display had Jackson Pollock’s art, with its wonderful abstract burst of color and form. At another side, signed by the same Mortimer, were the reality-defying surrealist pieces of Salvador Dali. The Artist explained to Eoropa how he had come to the acquaintance of Dali one day, in the 20th Century. The woman had none but little interest in art, but accompanied her friend’s stories with much appreciation and attention. Sculptures, by Raymond Duchamp-Villon sat at an entire corridor signed by the same man that signed the paintings. Indeed, for the common folk of the 18th Century, that Mortimer was indeed a genius bursting with talent way ahead of his time. For the Artist, he was most certainly the most outrageous con artist.  
–Do you think this is the work of a Time Traveler? – Eoropa asked.  
–Not only a Time Traveler, a Time Lord. In fact, I might’ve an idea of which one. – The Artist replied; his eyes fixated on the works of Duchamp-Villon.  
–A Time Lord? But the Laws of Time! The Rule of Interference! – Eoropa seemed startled.  
–Oh, please, Eoropa. – He looked at her with an impatient expression. – Name me one Renegade Time Lord that’s not interfering in some way with the life of the universe. I just drove a Camaro into the Louvre for god’s sake.  
–We’re ought to go to trial for this!  
–The Doctor’s gone to trial more than I can count and he’s Lord President.  
She decided to make no objection, for that argument settled it.  
The Artist suddenly stopped walking, and his brown eyes directed themselves towards the wall by their left side. ‘Do you feel it?’ He sasked. ‘I think so, yes. The wall.’ She answered. From the pocket of his velvet coat he picked up a silvery stick object, not much bigger than a pen. That was a Sonic Screwdriver. He pointed it towards the wall and the muffled sound of concrete moving, as if in a small tremor could be heard.  
He pushed the door as it seemed to lead to a small corridor. No commotion was drawn of any of the few guests of the museum, for their eyes and amazement were caught by the many works of art. The small corridor was made of rocks and concrete, or so it seemed, for with the touch of their fingers, both Eoropa and the Artist felt a familiar sensation, as if the walls vibrated in life.  
–You don’t think… – She again began to say.  
–Yes, that’s most certainly it. – He did not hesitate to say.  
Suddenly the corridor began to grow in size. The walls of stone turned to walls of metal, and the lack of ornamentation gave place to a pattern of circular objects that shone in a dim blue light. Eoropa, without startling the Artist, gripped to a gun she’d held close to her hip under the dress. Suddenly a bright light shone in their eyes, and as their sight adapted, they noticed a large room, with a hexagonal control set in the middle. The display, full of buttons, had a transparent cylindrical mechanism going smoothly up and down in the middle. That was the control room of a TARDIS.  
In a calm movement a man came out of a door that was at the other side of the room. He had in his hands what appeared to be half a baguette, and seemed startled when finally noticing the presence of the two unexpected guests.  
–Oh my, please, my dear sir and lady, the guests are not allowed here. – He said, strangely confused himself, too nervous to say the least.  
He ran to the console and tried to grasp to what appeared to be a laser gun, but was interrupted by Eoropa, that pointing her gun towards him, shouted:  
–Hands in the air, buddy!  
–What-- – The Artist looked at her, startled. – Hide that thing, will you?  
–He was about to shoot us! – She exclaimed.  
–No I wasn’t, I swear. – Said the man, with both his hands up, including the one with the bread.  
–Shut up, I’ll get to you. – The said, Artist pointing towards the man.  
–Who’s this guy anyway? – Eoropa asked, still holding the gun up.  
–I’m Mortimus. – The man smiled, nervously, under his moustache.  
–He’s the Monk. – The Artist said, walking towards the hexagonal console and grabbing the gun that was there. – Put your dirty hands down, you crook.  
The Monk put his hands down, and the bread on top of the console.  
–It’s a miracle you’ve survived the Time War, really. – Said the Artist. – Regenerated, I see.  
–Are you the Doctor? – The man asked, his eyes bulging and his forehead sweating.  
–No. – The Artist seemed annoyed by that remark. – I’m the Artist. And you’ve been messing with art. Seriously, dude, do you have any clues to the mess you’re making here? Bringing 20th Century art to the 18th Century? You could’ve been screwing up Earth’s entire history if I didn’t notice it.  
–Well, you see… – He had a smug smile. – I’m a Time Lord…  
The Artist sighed and placed his hands on his hips.  
–Yeah then act like so! – He shouted. – Travel through time with class, set up random rules, be a corrupt politician, I don’t know; just don’t screw up an innocent species art, okay?  
–Ah, and, who… who are you… to order me around? –He asked, sweating.  
The Artist armed the gun and pointed it towards the Monk’s face.  
–I’m the Artist. That’s all you need to know.

It took a while for the Artist to fix the mess. First, he had to dismiss the guests that were already inside. Then, he enabled the Camaro’s shield to guard the entirety of the Louvre. After that, more than an hour was spent in moving all the stolen art into the car’s dimensionally transcendental trunk. The Monk watched it all with sadness, sitting on a small chair, eating his baguette.  
–Be glad I didn’t let Eoropa shoot you. – He told the Monk.  
–I just don’t understand, why can you keep the art, but I can’t display it a few centuries earlier?  
–Man… – The Artist sighed. – You don’t see it, do you? For us a century is like a boring long day, but for humans? This is more than their lives last. You don’t just mess around with the things that matter most to them such as art. It’s simple, but it’s heartwarming to them and utterly important to their history.  
–It’s already done; you can’t do anything about the people that have seen it already! – He babbled, nervously, but sounding as if it was his triumph. – Earth’s history is not going to be the same now!  
The Artist smiled.  
–You do realize we’re aliens, right? I’ll just pop up to the next flea market around the corner of the Andromeda Galaxy and get us a memory wiper. They’ll think that Dali’s art was nothing but a strange dream of long-legged elephants and butterfly ships.  
–What gives you the right? You’re just like me, and the Doctor, and the Master, you accept yourself superior to these fools of Earth, and you take them under your care for no reason whatsoever. – The Monk said in an angry tone. – What is life like a Lord of Time if you can’t amuse yourself with time?  
The Artist looked at the car, Eoropa sitting in the driver’s seat, messing around in the keyboard to set the next destination.  
–Life’s full of art, man. Learn to see it.

As they watched from the outside, a strange loud sound was heard coming from the Louvre. Seconds later, it dissipated into silence. The Monk’s TARDIS had vanished into the Time Vortex.  
–How did you know? – Eoropa asked, typing buttons in the keyboard that set the TARDIS’ coordinates. – That the man in the poster was the Monk?  
–It’s no big deal, really. – The Artist laughed.  
–What?  
–The Louvre is not established a museum till later in 1793. – He pointed towards the corner of the windshield, which displayed the year 1790, the year they were in. – Only that buffoon would take the trouble just to mess with history.  
–You do your homework when it comes to art, don’t you? – She smiled.  
–Come on, Mrs. Pilot. Let’s go. – He said, smiling, and turned the key for the engine to start in a roar. – We’ve ourselves other dimensions to go to.


End file.
